


Promises

by CorsetJinx



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 21:50:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9627011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx
Summary: Promises are like hope - a beacon of light that makes you fight, fight harder than you ever thought you could, no matter the obstacle. And like hope they feel like shards of glass under your skin when broken.





	

The heavy tread of his footsteps gave him away. Even if it hadn't, Sieglinde felt she would have known whenever he was near anyway. People in the city called him strange, jeered at him with the nickname 'Lonely Yhorm'. But he was kind - quiet yes, and slow to warm up to anyone, but the giant was most definitely kind.

Just as her father said.

She waited until he could see her before she stood up, hands clasping behind her back as he slowed his walk. Taking what amounted to baby steps for him, Yhorm was careful not to tread on her or her gift as he stopped within one of his arms' reach of her and knelt with glacial speed. In the depths of his hood of chainmail it was difficult to make out just where he was looking, but she thought he might have glanced at the object beside her.

There really wasn't any way she could blame him - it was about the size of the hallways in the city proper, as big as she could make it without drawing suspicion to herself and needing to ask for too much help. She'd covered it with a canvas at least - several bits of different ones in truth. The real material was hard to come by, what she'd used for his gift even more so. She was glad she'd decided to make it outside, in the sun, rather than down below in the city.

"Hello Yhorm, my friend." She called, smiling as she watched his mouth start to curl upward.

"Sieglinde. Hello." He keeps his voice low and soft so as not to hurt her ears, leaning down to make speaking easier. His eyes were warm, small mouth curving into a smile. "You called for me?"

She nods, reaches out to touch the tip of his finger as he presses a hand to the ground to steady himself. Standing as tall as she can, the top of her head barely comes above his ankle. He's warm beneath her hand, nearly hot.

"I did. Father said you would be going away soon, so I thought I would make a gift for you." Her fingers brush over the skin just around the bed of his nail. To him she imagines it must feel like what a butterfly's wings are to her - light and brief, perhaps a little ticklish.

To her, he feels as steady as stone - only softer, warmer.

"You didn't have to." He tells her gently, turning his hand over at a pace similar to a snail's so that he can hold her hand carefully between his thumb and forefinger.

"I wanted to." Sieglinde flexes her fingers in an attempt to squeeze his, smiling as he does. She slides her hand out from between his fingers, moves over to grasp the worn edge of the canvas and gives it an almighty yank. The fabric rustles like an ornery man might groan, bunching and sending up minor debris as she tugs again.

The process of removing the cover is worth the wonder on Yhorm's face when she finally gets it free - his eyes widen more than she's ever seen them and his mouth parts a little as he stares.

Flowers were hard to come by as the First Flame began to fade, so Sieglinde had improvised by weaving together young saplings until she'd managed the basic shape of the crown. Securing the flowers had come after and, despite there now being bald patches where the canvas had knocked petals free, she felt reasonably proud of herself for accomplishing something close to her original goal.

"For me?" Yhorm touched the edge of the crown with the tips of his fingers, amazed.

Sieglinde nodded, even as she realized that her attempt had come out too small to actually fit around his head. His index finger was too wide to pass through the crown, but, he liked it and that was what counted.

"I didn't know what sort of flowers you might like so I picked all I could find." Releasing the canvas she clapped dust from her hands, moving to stand beside his hand. Smiling, she looked up at him, curious to see his reaction.

Yhorm was gentle as he lifted the would-be crown between his fingers, slowly turning it one way and then the other. Occasionally a shower of petals would trickle down and Sieglinde knew for certain that some of them had fallen into her hair.

Still she watched, flushing a little, as he carefully guided the band onto his littlest finger and flexed his hand to make certain it was secure. Then he raised his head, looking right at her with an expression that caused her heart to flutter.

"I know..." Sieglinde began, hesitating when Yhorm turned his head to look at her - slow and curious. She put on her best smile for him, standing up tall. "I know that you've got some important business to do, a duty you've given yourself but - you are never alone. I want you to remember that, Yhorm. I'll be with you - every day, every sunset, until you're back again. Father and I. I promise."

She doesn't know if she's ever seen a look like that cross someone's face before - something delicate and vulnerable and beautiful when his eyes grow brighter than normal and his smile is so careful and happy at once.

"Thank you, Sieglinde." Yhorm reaches out slowly and oh so gently to brush the tip of a finger over her cheek. She leans into it, closing her eyes and smiles when he says, "I promise to be with you as well."

-

In the Profaned Capital there are no peaceful sunsets. The city is dark, and in the darkness there are monsters. Things of flame, of flesh, of stone. Things of a deeper Dark than had ever been intended to tread upon soil.

The Lord of Cinder sits upon his throne and takes only shallow breaths, one hand on the pommel of his massive weapon. His eyes are trained on the only door, waiting.

In his other hand, nearly crumbled to dust, is what might have once been a would-be crown of flowers.


End file.
